


Wilt

by turps



Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-27
Updated: 2012-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-30 05:08:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turps/pseuds/turps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the 1000 word challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wilt

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Ephemera for beta reading

The bar is the perfect hiding place. The sun's held back by dog-eared karaoke flyers taped onto grimy glass. The one sunbeam, breaking through a spot rubbed clean by someone's hand, highlights tiny dust motes gleaming and moving sluggishly through the air. It's suffocatingly hot, and the fan whirring overhead does nothing to break through the thick layers of smoke and heat. Joey plucks at his collar, holding the material away from his skin.

He feels crumpled, used up, and welcomes the anonymity of being alone in a place where no- one even knows his name. He wipes his forearm across his face, and wraps his fingers around his cold pint. He wants to press the glass against his neck, but the men at the bar are already staring: giving them more ammunition against the crazy yank would be insane. Not that he'd understand what they'd say. He knows the Brits speak English, but sometimes, Joey doesn't believe it.

He takes a long drink of lager and wipes at the froth left on his nose. It's his third pint and he already feels like he's escaping his body, alcohol providing a fuzzy barrier against the exhaustion, the homesickness.

There's a muffled beep inside his bag. Joey allows it to fade into background noise. Ignoring the page is stupid, but this time alone is worth the consequences of slipping away. 

Time means nothing in this place, and Joey's floating, unthinking. Empty glasses stand on tattered coasters, and the scarred table-top shouts of years of hard use. The ash-tray is full, cigarette butts ringed with scarlet lipstick. Joey can't imagine a woman in this place. It's made for hard-faced men, their skin gouged with lines and clothes yellow with smoke.

It's not made for Joey. He doesn't care. Right now it's exactly what he needs. 

Four pints and Joey needs the bathroom. He stumbles on standing, hand pressed against the stained wall. The carpet sticks to his feet as he walks. Joey feels clumsy, steps exaggerated, and the men watch, indifference obvious even as they look his way.

The bathroom light is broken, and Joey welcomes it, taking care of business in the semi dark. Washing his hands, he's a blurred shadow in the cracked mirror, rubbing his fingers under freezing water and ignoring the dried up husk of soap.  

Wary of the towel heaped on the counter, Joey runs his hands down his thighs, his skin still damp when he pushes back into the bar. Immediately he feels the difference, an undercurrent that whispers around the room. The silence is pointed, and Joey can't help the flash of resentment at being found.

Joey's back itches as he walks back to his table. It's a familiar feeling, being watched. Normally he'd put on a show, an easy smile, but not today, and he hunches his shoulders as he sits down.

"You're in deep shit." 

Chris says it calmly, but he's anything but calm, anger sparking in his eyes. Even dressed down he's a glaring exception in this bar, so vibrant against the dark that Joey has to look away. He picks at a coaster, the sodden cardboard squishing under his fingers.

"I mean, what the fuck were you thinking? Slip security if you want. That's fine. Stupid, but fine. But going without telling us, without telling me? I'm so pissed right now."

It's the time for sorries and assurances that he won't do it again, but alcohol is a barrier between Joey's common sense and his tongue. "I can go out when I want; I don't need your permission." 

Chris lives to talk, words his defence against the world, but he's also an expert in controlling silences, forcing answers with empty air. Joey sags in his seat, pinned under the weight of Chris' gaze.  

"You're right, you don't need my permission, but getting trashed in some dive is fucking stupid, not to mention clichéd."

Chris' voice carries, and Joey can feel the shifting tension in the room. He pitches his voice low. "I don't think you should call it a dive." 

"I can call it what I want, I don't need your permission." Chris parrots Joey's words, and it's obvious that anger still simmers under his controlled tone.

"Come on." Impending danger cuts through the fuzz in Joey's mind. He stands, all too aware of the muted anger in the room. It rolls through the smoke, making his head spin as he grabs his bag and makes for the door. Chris sticks behind him; close enough to feel.

The sun is blinding after being inside. Joey screws up his eyes, disorientated, and blindly follows when Chris wraps his fingers around his wrist and tugs. He strides forward, and Joey matches his pace, anger fuelling them both until they're in a deserted alley, the buzz of the shopping precinct feet away.

Chris digs in his heels and spins. Joey finds himself against a wall, back pressed against rough brick with Chris in his face, his hands gripping Joey's arms. The heat pours from him, his eyes burning and Joey feels scorched, wilting under his touch.

"If you ever do that again I'll kill you."

"I'm sorry." Joey can say it now, resentment driven away by the lingering worry in Chris' face, the intensity with which he holds onto Joey as if Joey might shake him off and run away.

"You should be." Chris hands tighten, then he visually relaxes, deflating, and he's leaning forward, body heavy against Joey's for a moment before pulling away. "You scared me.

"I didn't mean to." It's the truth, and Joey hates that he caused Chris's fear, but he needed the time and he searches for the words to explain.

"Your bag's beeping."

Half formed explanations slip away. Frustrated, Joey digs out his pager, tipping it to the side so Chris can see Lance's name.

"We'll talk tonight, okay?" Chris tugs again, but this time his touch is gentle, a caress that Joey misses when Chris's hand drops.


End file.
